Bandages. White gauze wrapped precise around my torso. Everything else, gone. Just bandages and skin.
Breathing went ragged. Each inhale hurt. Each exhale worse.
Someone had stripped me. Cleaned me. Touched every part.
And I didn’t remember.
Fury came and went like a wave, leaving tremors. The shaking made everything hurt more.
Someone had done this.
Something twisted in my chest. Not pain, different. Made my throat tight, eyes burn.
Fingers touched the bandages. Even that small movement sent lightning from my shoulder. Soft. Clean.
Why?
Why this careful?
Fever climbed beneath my skin. Wrong heat. Making the pain sharper, thoughts slower, vision blurring at edges.
Tried to speak. Make any sound.
Mouth opened. Throat worked.
Nothing.
Terror spiked cold through the fever.
Broken. Something in me was broken. Speech should work. Should be able to,
But couldn’t.
Had I ever?
Didn’t know. Couldn’t remember sounds. Couldn’t remember silence. Just this failure, repeating.
Who was I?
Blank space where answers should live.
Reached for anything. Any name. Any identity.
Nothing came.
Just emptiness.
Looked at my hands. Really looked.
Calluses across palms. Scars crisscrossing knuckles. Healed wrong, street fighting, bare-knuckle damage.
Were these mine?
They looked like they belonged to someone dangerous. Someone who, what?
Didn’t know. Just marks. Just violence written in skin.
Someone had cleaned them anyway. Wrapped them after washing away,
